


Grown-Up Talks

by alemara



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:55:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alemara/pseuds/alemara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace has Something Important she wants to tell Steve, but she has to run it past Danny, first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grown-Up Talks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wanderlustlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustlover/gifts).



Gracie wants to talk to him.

He can tell, from the furtive glances she sends him across the breakfast table, that she does, and also, that she wants it to be just him, not him and Steve. They are looks that would go missed, probably, if he didn’t know her so well, but he does, and he catches the casual care in her voice when she asks Steve what his plans are for the day, like she wants to know where he’ll be, when he’s likely to show back up again.

So he makes himself available, clearing plates and taking them to the sink to wash, while Steve makes noises about checking the roof or the gutters or...something, outside, to do with house upkeep, he doesn’t know. It’s stuff he guesses John McGarrett did with Steve when Steve was Grace’s age, back before everything went to hell: household stuff. Handyman stuff. The kind of stuff Danny usually just pays other people to do, while Steve gives him this exasperated look like he can’t believe Danny would waste good money just because he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty.

It’s the principle of the thing, _Steven_.

But he goes, and Danny sort of loves that he does, even if he also thinks Steve is a little screwy for actually liking that kind of stuff, even if it’s not really the chores Steve likes so much as the sense of accomplishment at doing them himself, because he is still basically a one-man army and gets unbearably smug every time he proves he doesn’t need outside help, and, _also_ , today, it gives Grace a chance to talk to him, alone. For what reason, he’s got no idea, but she’s got that thoughtful look on her face and a set to her jaw that reminds him of Steve when he’s gotten an idea into his head, so it’s bound to be important. And yeah, here she is, hanging around while he does dishes, like she doesn't have anything better to do, like hit the beach, or help Steve with the ladder, or clean her room.

Which he reminds her of, because he is a helpful and responsible father, even without being able to or having the slightest desire to reshingle a roof. "Don't you have a room to clean today?"

She shakes her head. "It's done already."

"Already?" That must be Rachel's genes at work, because he has never once voluntarily picked up after himself before breakfast, but she comes a little closer, almost enough to nudge him, like he needs to get back on track, so he shifts his thoughts with a clunk like railroad tracks switching. “Well, thanks, Monkey. I’m sure Steve will appreciate the fact that at least one of us is naturally neat.”

“ _Danno_.” It’s a little drawn-out, a little of the familiar exasperated tone, and that’s good, because she looks a little less nervous when she’s giving him that long-suffering roll of her big brown eyes, but it doesn’t last long. Her face goes tight, focus turning inward, like it does when she’s sick or unhappy, setting off the feather-touch needed for every spinning, screeching, flashing-light of an alarm to sound in his head. _Danger danger danger_ , it wails, as he hangs up the washcloth, dries his hands, and turns to settle back against the counter, to look at her.

“So if you’re not helping with the dishes, what’s up, huh? Just want to spend some time with the old man?”

She shakes her head, but it’s coming, he just needs to be patient, and pretend he can’t see the way she steels herself, like she thinks she’s about to get yelled at. Her mouth opens, closes, and she bites at her lip, eyes flicking between him and the floor. He wonders if she has any idea how this is making his stomach drop, an elevator whose buttons are all pushed, falling on a straining cord that’s threatening to snap.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she says, finally, and turns those wide, worried eyes on him. He notes the way her hands are twisting distractedly in her shirt, and wonders how long it’ll take him to pass out from the way the blood is rushing out of his head in panic. “It’s important.”

“Okay,” he says, and takes a second to be proud of himself for not letting his voice crack. How old is she, now? Old enough for a boyfriend? Old enough to -- no, no. _No_. That door gets slammed so hard and fast he almost catches his thoughts in it, like fingers or toes.

Possible scenarios flit in a frenzy through his head. Is she getting picked on at school, and if so, is he allowed to use the Governor’s resources to send in a pack of trained assassins to take care of the problem? Worst comes to worst, Steve or Chin could shadow her. Steve would even agree. Steve would be there without even asking. Steve could make someone disappear so thoroughly nobody would even ask any questions. It would be impossible to say for sure whether they even existed, to begin with, at all.

“Danno?” He blinks away from a sudden vision of Grace’s school being swarmed with terrorists, and looks down at where she’s tugging at his sleeve.

“Right,” he says, wishing he could give himself smack in the face to get his head back in the game, settling for running his palm and fingers over his mouth and chin, scraping against stubble as a reminder that this is still just Saturday morning. Grace is in pajamas. He hasn’t even shaved yet. It is way too early in the weekend to think about ordering a hit on someone. Right? He should have at least one more cup of coffee before making any rash decisions, like calling in favors to Adam Noshimuri, who may have gone legit, but who probably still has at least one or two cold-blooded killers on speed-dial.

Pushing away from the counter, he takes her hand, brings her to the stools around the kitchen island, and sits her in one before pulling up the other, elbow resting on the island top. “Okay. We’re gonna do it like this, alright?” Both hands lift, and he leans back a little, framing Grace in the square left between his palms. “You tell me, in the most basic of terms, what’s wrong, and then we’ll work in the details and figure out how to fix it. Okay?”

She hesitates, and his hands drop to his lap, as he studies her, mouth twisting. “How about I ask questions, and you say yes or no, first. How about that?”

There’s a pause while she considers the arrangement, before a nod. “Okay.” His fingers drum, while he thinks. “Do I need to arrest anyone?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Does Uncle Steve need to shoot anyone?”

Another shake, this time with a faint air of exasperation. “ _No_ , Danno.”

“Because he would, you know,” Danny tells her, helpfully. “If there’s someone bothering you. We can send Uncle Steve after him -- her -- whoever -- and forget about it, babe, end of story.”

Her lips press together, and he’s got just enough time to realize that something in there actually might, somehow, horrifyingly, be related to the problem at hand before she takes a breath and says: “It’s...”

“What, baby?”

Another hesitation, and then she steels herself. “It’s _about_ Uncle Steve.”

For a long second, there’s not a lot he can do but blink at her, while he works over the few things in life he knows are certain. Grace loves Steve as much as Steve loves Grace, which are both as much as he loves either of them. That’s a truth. Like gravity. Like the sky being blue. It’s why this life works, isn’t it? When it was never expected or looked for, and just happened, and keeps happening, a daily miracle, same as sunrise.

It takes more fortitude than he’d care to admit to keep his voice the same level of curious and caring it’s been so far, as panic of a different kind beats at his heart, frantic wings that don’t flutter so much as hammer, like a sudden hurricane wind springing up out of nowhere. “What about Uncle Steve?”

Her fingers are twisting, and she looks nervous, or maybe sick, it’s hard to tell. “I’m scared you won’t like it,” she confesses, finally, and he is honestly starting to feel a little dizzy.

“Well, I won’t know until you tell me, will I?”

She shakes her head, but she’s still waffling, and he reminds himself that it’s a good thing that his daughter is trying to go easy on him. He just wishes going easy didn’t feel so much like getting kicked in the stomach. “Promise you won’t get mad?”

“I promise.” That’s easier. He couldn’t get mad at Grace, not for anything, not for something she’s so worried about. No matter what it is. Leaning forward, his hands clasp, forearms resting along his thighs, so they’re eye-level. “No getting mad, so go ahead and tell me, Monkey. I know you’ve wanted to all morning.”

Her lip tugs, and she takes a deep breath, skinny shoulders lifting and falling rapidly. To his alarm, her eyes go startlingly glossy, but before he can respond to whatever’s got her so worked up, she blurts it out, voice shaking, like she’s disappointed him, like she’s in trouble, so his heart’s already banging like a wind chime in a hurricane, and his hand is already reaching for the side of her head when she gets the words out. “You’re my daddy and you’ll _always_ be my Danno but I think Uncle Steve should get to be my daddy, too, so _please_ don’t be upset?”

He blinks at her. “Huh?”

All eloquence gone, but, hell, he can’t be blamed. It’s like screeching around a mountain curve in the Camaro, tires screaming, only to find the road disappears into thin air just past the bend. Grace is watching him with eyes that are brilliant with tears, because she thinks he might somehow be upset by this, and she is just, you know, so perfect, how did he manage to get such a perfect little girl, how could he deserve a daughter with so much compassion and such a huge, soft heart, and he’s just sitting here feeling like he’s been hit with a truck, all goofy with admiration for his baby girl, just swamped with it, a poor little boat -- alright, _dinghy_ awash with love -- but she’s watching him with trepidation and he remembers that he hasn’t actually answered her yet.

Right. “Let me get this straight,” he says, sitting back up, hands lifting to make a loose frame he can see her through, a pale, fraught face that he considers with befuddled affection before shaking himself loose. “You think you should start calling Steve _dad_ , and you think my feelings might be hurt by this, because I am your father. Is that about right? Am I warm? Cold? Totally off the grid?”

She nods, and he says “that doesn’t really help,” which sort of breaks the tension a little, letting her stiffly held shoulders loosen, slightly.

Her voice is tiny. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

Christ, he thinks, hands falling to his knees as he looks at her. She’s so good. Where did that come from? “No, you didn’t hurt my feelings. I think it’s a great idea.”

There’s definite disbelief in her expression, but he thinks he can see the faintest flicker of relief, too. “You do?”

“Oh, yeah.” Nodding, definite, exaggerating it for her benefit, as much as for his own, because his pulse has only just barely slowed, and she needs to never know how close he came to a stroke, right there, so his hands come up off his knees, and push forward in parallel lines, like he’s directing a shot. “Stellar. I can’t believe I didn’t come up with it myself, but then, you’ve got the brains in this house.”

She dissolves into a smile, that big, beautiful, flash of a smile that hooks him like a fish, every time, even though it’s still a little uncertain at the edges. “So it’s okay?”

Danny pauses, acutely aware that his word, in this second, will likely be law. That Grace will listen to him and act accordingly, and that Steve, blissfully ignorant of the turmoil and drama shaking up their quiet kitchen, will either get the surprise of his life or go on thinking that _Uncle Steve_ is the best thing he can be called. And it _is_ good, sure. Danny can’t forget the look that was in Steve’s eyes the first time he heard Grace call him that; the disbelief and delight, the sudden overflow of bemused wonderment.

It had made Danny laugh for about ten straight minutes, once Grace was out of earshot.

It’s definitely good. It’s just not the _best_ , and he wants Steve to have the best, alright, he deserves it, after the crap he’s been through, after everything he’s done so that other people can have the kind of happiness and security he never looked for, for himself. It was never part of his expectation, Danny knows that, and sometimes he catches Steve watching him and Grace with an expression that’s half bemusement and half disbelief, like he’s still not a hundred percent that they’re here and planning on sticking around. For him.

This is going to floor him, and Danny wishes he could see it, but this is, well, Grace’s thing, so he’ll step aside and let her do it her way, no matter how beckoning the prospect of Steve’s face at being called _dad_ for the first time ever. Steve McGarrett, super SEAL extraordinaire, who has run down more criminals that Danny could accurately count, who has used guns bigger than the little girl who leads him around so shamelessly and about whose finger he is so hopelessly knotted.

Danny sees it. The way he watches her, eyes all lit up. How cautious he was in the beginning, always so careful, as if there were any part of Grace, sticky kisses and childishly careless hugs and hours of talking about her day, that did not love him unconditionally. Steve isn’t used to being adored, and Danny never really knew whether to laugh or take pity on him, every time he got that wide-eyed look of surprise on his face as Grace slipped him seamlessly into her world.

Not that they hadn’t had a talk about that, too, Danny sitting on the side of her new bed here in what used to be Mary’s room, the first night, making sure she knew nobody wanted to have her change things, okay, if she didn’t want to, and she’d given him that look like she loved him, but he seriously really can be an idiot, sometimes. _It’s Uncle Steve_ , she’d said, simply. _What’s so weird about that?_

Obviously.

“Yeah, Monkey. It’s okay.”

“Do you think he wants me to?”

She’s watching him so seriously, and he has to remind himself that Grace is not trying to do anything but be fair to everyone, that she wants to give Steve a chance to not be...what, on the hook? Pressured into this, just because she wants it? There’s a crazy, nearly painful bubble rising in his chest, but he ignores it, focuses on her, lips thinned thoughtfully, hands coming together again. Like he’d consider a question from a grown-up, because this is a grown-up talk, and she deserves his respect, his full attention, and his real opinion.

The short answer, of course, is _yes_. Even if Steve has never said so. Even if it isn’t a thought that has actually defined itself in his head. Even though Danny’s fairly sure it hasn’t, because Steve wouldn’t expect it, wouldn’t consider it something he can have.

Goof.

But trying to explain Steve’s bizarre relationship with what he deserves and what he _thinks_ he deserves is a conversation best left until Grace is about fifteen years older and able to drink, so he takes a different tack, for now. “Do you want to call him that? Because I have to say, I think he’d love it, but you know, Uncle Steve, he wouldn’t ever want you to do something because you felt like you had to, okay?”

She gives him a look like she can’t believe he manages to put his shoes on the right feet in the morning. “I know that.”

“Oh, okay.”

His expression bypasses her entirely, as she goes on. “I do want to.”

“Okay,” he says, again, and takes a second to wonder what happened to all his words, the ones he’s had his whole life, that have been his brick and mortar, his weapon of choice, but they all seem to have slipped away, leaving him floating here on this stunned cloud, torn between a desire to hug his daughter and a desire to find some quiet room where he can release some of the hysterical laughter that’s trying to escape and be grateful he doesn’t have to sic Steve on a junior high student. “Hey, Gracie. Why today? Any special reason?”

He’s wracking his brain, trying to think. It’s not a special day, not an occasion, not an anniversary or birthday. Just a normal Saturday. There were pancakes, and juice, and plans to go swimming later. And Gracie is just shrugging.

“No reason. I just do.”

“Okay, well...”

He watches her for a long second, but she’s back to being contained, perfectly certain, feet swinging below her chair in a way that he recognizes as impatience. He has a sudden crashing sense of sympathy for Steve, who is probably about fifty seconds away from dropping something heavy on his foot in surprise. “I guess you’d better go tell him, huh?”

She beams at that, and he’s helpless against it, helpless against his little girl who loves Steve so much, who makes him so proud. “Okay,” she says, happy, and bounces up to put her arms around his neck in a guileless hug, kiss his cheek in a way that sticks a Disney Princess pink Band-Aid onto the sudden crack in his heart, and then runs out of the kitchen. Danny listens for a second, before getting up, and heading to the fridge. As he opens it, there’s a loud _clang_ from the direction of the garage, and a yelp that sounds distinctly like a startled Steve, and he smiles as he reaches for the milk.

So maybe it’s a special day, after all.


End file.
